Number Ninety Four
by shootski
Summary: Wolf Creek. 30,000 are reported missing in Australia every year. 90 percent are found within a month. The rest...well, the rest are easy pickin’s for me... Constructive criticism, positive or otherwise, is appreciated.


30,000 are reported missing in Australia every year. 90 percent are found within a month. The rest...well, the rest are easy pickin's for me...

"Number Ninety-Four"

by shootski

Rated M for language and violence.

* * *

_Now, here's a curious one..._ Mick Taylor thought to himself as he glanced at the dirty white pickup from the driver's seat of his own battered truck. 

He hadn't been to the solitary gas station in a while...he'd been busy with his latest victim, number ninety-three. He never bothered trying to learn their names - numbers were so much more easier to keep track of, and they spoke of his impressive record. Ninety-three victims. He didn't know for sure, but he was confident that he had broken SOME kind of record.

He'd been waiting in the parking lot for a few hours before the pickup pulled into the service station. He could afford to wait. That's where all the excitement was, after all - in the waiting. Quickly killing stupid tourists, without so much as a scream of pain, well, that was no fun at all. He could tell that this new victim was a tourist - the hiking pack in the back of the pickup was a dead giveaway. Only tourists would be out in the middle of the goddamn desert. _Fuckin' tourists..._

His focus shifted to the driver of the white pickup as he left the building. The driver himself was unremarkable: tall and lanky, long brown hair tied back, jeans and a dark sweatshirt to ward off the autumn chill. He was too far away for Mick to get a good look at his face, but no matter - there would be plenty of time later. His mind drifted back to the events of the last week...that's right, number ninety-three took a whole week to croak. Number thirty-one was the only victim to last longer. _Dumb bastards didn't know when to give in. _Mick chuckled softly as he recalled the killing blows of both victims in all of the warm red glory, the twisting of his "Dundee" knife to impart every last molecule of pain possible, the wide-open mouths, the screams...

Mick snapped back to reality as the sound of the tourist starting his pickup reached him. He remained still as the white truck pulled away from the station - the hunt was on.

When the pickup was almost out of sight, he started his own truck and pulled out of the parking lot, turning down the road after the pickup. He kept the pickup on the verge of his sight, staying as far back as possible. He didn't want the tourist to remember his truck when he came back to "collect" him.

As the pickup approached the Wolf Creek turnoff, Mick tensed. This was the only tourist attraction around, but there was always the off chance that the driver of the pickup was headed for some other destination. This had happened twice before - the two families that would have given him numbers seventeen through nineteen and numbers sixty-two through sixty-seven had not taken the last turnoff of their lives, but had driven on to other locations, too far away from his camp to safely trap them. Nothing put a damper on his day like losing his prey.

His tension evaporated, however, and was replaced by an almost manic anticipation as the pickup signaled and made the turnoff. He smiled grimly. _Here comes number ninety-four._

But first, he had to set the trap.

* * *

He continued past the turnoff, driving for another ten minutes or so before pulling off to the side of the road. He waited for another half hour, giving the soon-to-be victim time to get going along the trail to the famed meteorite crater. Then, he turned his truck around, and drove back down the main road, this time taking the turnoff to Wolf Creek. 

There it was, at the end of the road - the dirty white pickup. Mick smiled again as he brought his truck to a stop next to the tourist's pickup. The pack was missing, and so was the tourist. Just as he wanted it.

He grabbed his toolkit from the passenger's seat and got out of the truck, already visualizing the necessary steps for popping the pickup's hood. He reached the truck and, after pulling out the tools he needed from the kit, got to work on the hood. After a few minutes, he managed to get the latch undone, and with a grunt, lifted the unusually heavy hood. The springs at the hinges kept the hood open as he reached into his toolkit again, this time taking out the tools he needed to properly vandalize the pickup. Humming a tune, he got to work. He always fucked up a car in four different ways, in the event that a stupid tourist actually knew something about auto mechanics. He used to only cut the spark plug wires, but victim number six had taughed him early on that he could never be too careful. Luckily, number six had left his headlights on, draining the car battery in the process. Mick had had an especially productive time with number six

Fifteen minutes later, he closed the hood with a SLAM, satisfied that the pickup was no more than an immoble hunk of steel now that he was done with it. After replacing his tools, he climbed back into his truck and drove back down the road, turning right onto the main road. Another two hours on the road, and he would be back to his camp. A wide, evil grin crossed his face as he settled in for the long drive, mentally running through the checklist of all the materials he would need to prepare for his...guest.

* * *

It was well after dark as Mick made the Wolf Creek turnoff for the second time that day, the bright lights on his truck cutting through the black night. 

_Here I come, number ninety-four._

The last thing he did before leaving camp was the drugging of the water jug. _One of my more ingenious ideas,_ he thought to himself as his mind wandered back to the camp and the plethora of "toys" ready for his enjoyment. What should he start with? The knife was a classic, but a bit over-played. Perhaps the crowbar? Or the brass knuckles? Maybe...he should begin with the rifle, planting lead bullets into just the right places, minimizing blood loss and organ trauma but maximizing the agony...

"The choice is yours..." he whispered to himself.

Now he could see the dirty white pickup in the distance and, inside the cab, the shadowy outline of the tourist. His heartbeat jumped, his breath caught in his throat. The anticipation of what was to come was almost overpowering. Almost as quickly, Mick calmed himself, adapting the friendly persona he used to lure the tourists into the proverbial "false sense of security," putting it on like clothing, adjusting it, making sure he appeared amiable and well-meaning.

_There_.

He stopped his truck, checked his face in the rear-view mirror one last time - he couldn't be too careful - and opened the door, stepping out.

As he began to walk forward, the pickup door opened and the tourist got out. He was wearing a balaclava now. _What a pussy,_ Mick thought, _it can't be below 5 Celsius._ The tourist put his hands in his sweater pocket, trying to keep them warm.

Mick could almost see the number 94 in bright neon lines on the tourist's sweatshirt as he spoke his signature opening line: "What the hell you doin' all the way out here, mate?"

"Seems like I got a bit o' car trouble," the tourist said. His voice was deep and slow, but carried the unmistakable Australian accent.

_A homeland tourist_, Mick thought to himself as he put on a smile and continued to walk forward. They weren't the best, but they were better than nothing. "Well, I know a bit about cars," he said as he continued to walk forward. "Think I could have a look?"

The tourist's hand moved, and he spoke in a different voice. "Have a look at _this_."

_That voice!_ Mick's smile fell away.

A flash of gray in the blinding white spotlights.

_I KNOW that voice._..

The tourist lifted his hand.

_But from where?_

"What the-"

_**BLAM!**_

Searing pain exploded from Mick's stomach.

_**BLAM!**_

A splash of red erupted from his left shoulder.

_**BLAM!**_

He fell to his knees as a lance of agony spread up his right leg.

_Where do I know that voice from?_

As Mick kneeled there, head bowed, blood pouring from the holes in his body, pain spreading outward from the wounds, he could only wonder in confusion about the voice.

A hand placed itself on his forehead and pushed his head back, forcing his eyes upon the tourist. In his other hand was a pistol.

The tourist spoke.

"That was for Liz."

Suddenly, Mick remembered.

"And for Kristy."

A cold pit formed in his abdomen.

"And for me."

_Impossible!_

As if he was reading Mick's mind, the tourist reached up with his gun hand, grabbing the bottom of the balaclava with two fingers, and ripping it from his head.

Through the red haze, Mick looked into the face of...

_It IS him...he didn't have hair before..._

"And this is for all the rest._.."_

_Number fifty-five..._

Ben Mitchell raised the pistol to Mick Taylor's forehead.

_The one that got away..._

"See you in hell, motherfucker."

_**BLAM!**_


End file.
